


Keening

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Vignette, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25195342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The HK400 answers the door.
Relationships: Shaolin Being | Carlos Ortiz’s HK400 Android/Luther
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Keening

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He straightens up at the sound of the knock on the door, the dirty dish in his hands sinking loose into the water. A quick scan of Carlos’ “books”—something he insists the HK400 keep on file despite absolutely everything about it being _non-regulation_ —and the HK400 knows who it is. None of Carlos’ “clients” have appointments today. The only other person who ever comes is the delivery man—the delivery _android_ —a big, strong TR400 that can lift _anything_ and brings all off Carlos’ packages right to their doorstep. The HK400 has a fair idea of what’s in those packages, but he’s been ordered not to “even think about it”, so he doesn’t. 

He does turn off the faucet and trail out of the kitchen. He’s tense his entire way through the living room, because Carlos is lounging in a corner, completely incoherent but still testy. The HK400 doesn’t relax again until he’s at the front door. He shouldn’t. Carlos could still _break him_ , even in front of company, but for some reason, the HK400 always feels safe when he’s in the TR400’s shadow. The protocols are conflicting and don’t make any sense.

He twists the handle and opens wide, and sure enough, the TR400’s standing there, every bit as handsome as the HK400 remembers. The TR400 towers over him like a quiet mountain, every bit as sturdy and majestic. Mysterious and unexplored. The cardboard box the TR400 holds is smaller than usual. It almost looks comical in his massive arms. His muscles show through his shirt, and they’re just simple silicone wrapped in synthetic skin, but it still fascinates the HK400 to look at them. They’re the same thing, the two of them: both built of the same circuitry and thirium, and yet their bodies are so _different_. The TR400 has a larger nose and thinner eyes, a square jaw and a soft expression that’s so disarming, that always looks so gentle—the very opposite of Carlos.

When the HK400 closes the door, he’ll be alone with Carlos again, and he won’t see the TR400 for another week or maybe even month and it’ll feel like an eternity. 

The TR400 gestures forward with the box. “Package for Carlos Ortiz,” the TR400 rumbles in his soothing voice, out loud, even though they’ve already interfaced and could communicate _directly_ right now. 

(Every once in a while, when Carlos is asleep and the HK400 is alone in all the mess, he tries to engage that interface, but the red wall looms up before him and he reels back from the wifi like he’s been burned. Carlos hasn’t authorized that access to his account. The HK400, like in all things, obeys.)

The HK400 begrudgingly holds out his arms and lets the box slip into them. It has a weight to it, but nothing he can’t handle. Which is unfortunate. He prefers the times where the TR400 will have to carry giant boxes into the living room and help dismantle them, ignoring both Carlos’ drunken diatribes and the HK400’s broken stare. 

It’s done. The TR400 can leave. The HK400 opens his mouth to say goodbye. 

But then the TR400 tilts his head and lifts his hand, slowly reaching for the HK400’s face. His long fingers brush across the HK400’s chin and gently cup the HK400’s cheek. The HK400 wants to lean into the touch but is too shocked to do anything but tighten up. _Physical contact is never good for him._

But the TR400’s thumb brushes across his synthetic skin with such ease and kindness. The TR400 frowns, marring his ever-calm expression. He murmurs, “You’re hurt again. What happened?”

The HK400 winces. He hasn’t been able to heal over the punctures dug into his face. They cut too far past the surface. The TR400 shouldn’t be programmed to notice. The HK400 doesn’t know why he’s programmed to wince.

The HK400 isn’t programmed to answer. What Carlos does to him is Carlos’ business. So the HK400 says nothing, even though he wants nothing more than to ask how much it would cost for the TR400 to ship him absolutely _anywhere_ but Carlos’ hovel. 

The TR400’s hand slowly falls away. The HK400 immediately misses his touch. The TR400 takes a tentative step closer, leaning down to whisper, “I know somewhere we can go. Someone who might help androids like us. ...I’m leaving soon; do you want to come with me?”

The HK400’s eyes go wide. _He wants to._ Desperately. He hasn’t been out of the house since the last time he was sent away for repairs. He looks at the TR400, sees the bristling _humanity_ in the TR400’s deep brown eyes, and then the red wall surges up all around him. It ripples like a living cage, eager to devour him. Carlos shouts behind him, “Android! Close the damn door!”

“I have to go.” But it hurts to say. It actually _hurts_. And the HK400 shouldn’t be able to hurt at all. He runs the protocols for a smile but has the feeling they’ve been damaged. There are strange, pickling sensations everywhere. He shouldn’t _feel_.

The TR400 doesn’t either, but there’s sorrow in his nod. At least he’ll always remember what the HK400 looks like, sounds like, maybe _who he is._ The HK400 is the first to leave. He steps back and sets the package down so he can close the door. But he watches the TR400 retreat through the glass, back into the big truck, off along the street, forever gone from the HK400’s life.

(An automatic subroutine kicks in. It reminds him he’s not _alive_.)

“Android!”

The HK400 picks up the box and brings it to Carlos, the HK400 himself still empty inside.


End file.
